


Imagine a Picnic

by RainingPrince



Series: Imagine... [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Enthusiastic Consent, Erotic Poetry, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-19 12:46:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22711033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainingPrince/pseuds/RainingPrince
Summary: A picnic on the beach.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Imagine... [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1633408
Comments: 7
Kudos: 39





	Imagine a Picnic

**Author's Note:**

> He/Him pronouns for Aziraphale, he has a quim.  
> He/Him pronouns for Crowley, his genitals are irrelevant.
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day <3

Imagine the ocean.

Seemingly endless expanse of water, blue in the absence of color, clear and reflective.

Imagine a beach, the waves slowly lapping at the sand, pushing and pulling like a cat kneads a blanket before curling up to take a nap. Imagine the seagulls calling, circling far overhead and the sun beaming warmth with lazy affection. Imagine a picnic, on a bluff by the beach; the lovers are sat on a blanket far bigger than necessary. They finished their food over an hour ago, but haven’t yet moved from their spot. Imagine a sunhat, wide-brimmed with a large white flower, weighed-down beside the basket with a couple of rocks to keep it from blowing away.

Imagine one of the lovers holds the other in his lap, absently playing with soft golden curls as he listens to the other read aloud, words once written by a man long-gone. He turns his head up to face the sky, his eyes closed as he soaks up the sun, his reptilian nature basking in the simple pleasure of the moment.

“ _I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you, And you must not be abased to the other. Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat, Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best, Only the lull I like, the hum of your valvèd voice._ ”

The one who speaks shifts absently during a pause in the words, their meaning clearly written in the depth of his voice, the faintest flush to his cheeks.

“ _I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning, How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn’d over upon me, And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart, And reach’d till you felt my beard, and reach’d till you held my feet…_ ”

The one with eyes of goldenrod turns back to his partner and smiles, pressing perfectly painted lips to the nearest plump cheek. The reader pauses to sigh, turning his face to accept a heated kiss. When they pull away, the demon asks “Angel, is there something you’d like some help with?”

“Was I that obvious?”

“No. But I know you that well.”

He swallows and inhales, nods; rests his thumb between the pages. “Should I put the book down?”

“Hmm,” the demon slides his hand down over a soft chin, then a strong shoulder, plucking at the straps of a yellow spotted sundress before sliding further still to rest against a round hip. He gives a little squeeze in appreciation, of supple skin and cotton weave. “If you like. But I’m a little bit curious,”

“What of?” The angel has leaned his head back against the demon’s shoulder, eyes still closed as he follows the path of those wandering fingers.

“How long you can last, how distracted you’d be.” Said fingers begin to pull gently at the folds of the dress, bright yellow and soft white spots disappearing into themselves as he rucks it up. “Would you like to find out?”

Aziraphale sighs, his muscles already trembling in anticipation of those well-loved hands, clever fingers that know him well. “I very much would.”

“Tell me, angel, what have you got for me today?” he asks conversationally, sliding his hand across sensitive flesh. He hasn’t touched just yet, but he’s close enough to feel the heat of arousal, drags his fingers across thick thighs, striped in stretch marks, luxuriates in the subtle tactile contrast.

“A q-quim,”

“A quim? Is that what you’d like me to call it?”

“It feels right today,”

Crowley slips a hand ever so deftly underneath the angel’s underthings, earning a gasp and an arched back. “Oh angel, it feels amazing.” He coos as he cups him.

“C-Crowley, please.” Aziraphale murmurs, rolling his hips and whining when met with a tut and a retreating hand.

A playful growl and a nip to the ear, Crowley whispers; “I seem to remember something about distracting you; but I can’t very well do that if there is nothing to distract you from.”

With an interesting mix of reluctance and excitement, Aziraphale opens up the book, finds where he left off and begins again. The moment he does, there are fingers upon him, tracing delicate patterns over heated skin, through fine curls. " _Swiftly arose and s-spread around me the peace and... knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth, And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own, And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own…_ ”

Those fingers dip low around the outer lips, and draw back up sharply between, spilling not a small amount of wetness built up already. The demon says nothing, listening intently to the sharp inhales and minute trembles in Aziraphale’s voice under his hands.

“ _And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers, And that a kelson of the creation is love,_ ” A bitten lip, a heavy swallow, his hands are beginning to tremble. “ _And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields_ \- Oh, Crowley, please I-”

“You aren’t finished angel,” Crowley whispers, presses a kiss to his lovers’ temple. “At least finish the section.”

He does. Gasping and stuttering, he manages. “ _And b-brown ants in the little wells beneath them, And mossy scabs of the... worm fence, heap’d stones, elder, mullein and p-poke-weed._ ” He drops the book (carefully) to the blanket and leans back, closes his eyes and sighs.

“You did wonderfully, angel.” Crowley presses another kiss to Aziraphale’s face and nibbles at his ear. “Would you like a reward?”

“Re-reward?” The angel blinks his eyes open, distracted.

“Oh yes, a reward. You managed to finish your poem, but you haven’t actually finished yet.” He carefully pushes the angel away from his chest and Azirahale whines in protest. Crowley merely chuckles as he gets up, and lays the angel’s head on a miraculously folded jacket. Aziraphale watches as Crowley slips down his body and between his legs. The demon grabs handfuls of the yellow dress, pulls it up and out of the way, and grins as he lowers his head beneath it and begins an entirely new form of distraction.

It doesn’t take long, he knows what he’s doing.

Imagine.

**Author's Note:**

> Song of Myself (Section 5) - Walt Whitman


End file.
